A Gentleman's Game
by NoLogique
Summary: Riots and revolution in Venom, and rising tensions in Corneria. Fox goes to Falco's country estate to rest and relax, and finds Krystal more than eager to make his stay problematic.
1. Arriving

The carriage bucked only once coming up the stone pathway--Good Christ, Fox thought; they'd forgotten to replace the loose flagstone; we're all going to die-- But the wheel set back down onto the path, the carriage righted; the movement didn't even upset Falco's cigarillo.

Falco wasn't talking to him; his mind was on politics, on the matters going on across the channel, in the gay streets of Venom, where blood was spilling. Falco always had something of the soldier in him, though politics had sailed far from the gentlemen warrior's realm a long time ago. Maybe some men _are_ made for war, Fox mused; maybe some men, like Falco, like the Venomisan Leon, like Mr. Wolf, were just made for physical combat, the crushing of bones. He had seen Falco look longingly towards one of the rougher pubs; he played a lot of sport, and hunted like he had been born a rural gentlemen. Fox, a city man, never understood the appeal; the country was a lot of nonsense, a lot of fields, a lot of forests, a lot of country-folk; the pastoral myth made manifest in the form of a lot of muddy roads.

Falco held his cigar close to him; as the light outside got darker and darker, his features began to lose themselves in the shadows, so that only his beak and the cloud of smoke revealed his presence. He was thinking, over and over, about what he could do, if he was over in the Venom capital; how he could make the people listen to reason, to stop the riots, reinstate the Church, reinstate order.

Once, while they had been drinking in Fox's apartments in Corneria City, Falco had said he wished it were the old days, back in the day when you could collect a bunch of boys together and sail across the channel and beat some sense into the Catholic fools. Fox wanted to tell him that he didn't think any such "old day" existed; at any rate, he himself wanted the riots to end so he could go over and visit. Corneria City was a dark, dreary city on a dark, dreary island. Venom had the romantic blood in its foundations; its archiecture was lovely, and south, along the coast, there could be found sun; actual sun, not the pale, pallid thing that shone above Corneria City, trying to bleed through the fog.

"Krystal will have returned from her trip," Falco said suddenly, returning Fox's attention to the present. "She will want to see you."

"That's not the end of the world."

"Some bachelors think so." He looked out the window. "Interesting; our country's obsession with the Cult of Domesticity tells us to send our women out to be educated. I guess, so they can come back and be domestic."

"A husband and wife should be equal in intellect."

"A topic that doesn't interest me in the slightest, thank God." Rather, Falco was thinking about locating a house in the city, feeling more and more uncomfortable that hiding away in his country estate was a display of cowardice. The continent was, after all, in turmoil -- scratch that, Venom was in turmoil, but what was more a symbol of continental influence than Venom? Corneria would soon feel the influence; if they didn't act fast, the city's streets would run as red as their cousins'.

As the carriage stopped in front of his estate, he muttered, "I should have enlisted." Fox pretended not to have heard.

The house was a large shadow in the dark-blue light of dusk; a servant took the horses, and Fox fumbled for his hat in the dark in the carriage, finding it in time to get out and meet with Mrs. Caroso, formerly Katt Monroe, who was a surprise to see. He shot a glance at Falco, and asked her if she was staying, if her husband was staying.

"Panther is in the capital," she said, smiling. "With the summer months coming on, I thought, why not spend a holiday in the country? Falco was always been such a good friend."

"Of course," Fox said, wondering what the hell Falco was up to here. "It's always an honour to see you."

"Krystal is also staying, which gives me plenty of feminine company, something a woman always need." Another grin from the woman. "I think she's excited to see you."

_I don't intend to become bethrothed on my holiday_, Fox wanted to say, but instead he just smiled and made small talk on the way up to the house. Mrs. Caruso spoke rapidly; about how it was just a short ride to the lake, how nice the villagers were, how good the pastor was--why, he had visited just yesterday.

"Yes," Fox said, smiling. "I know Reverend Hare; he was a close friend of my family. I--"

As they came into the house, Falco's man took their coats and their hats; at the foot of the stairs they could see Krystal, dressed in a long thin dress with embroideries that looked foreign; obviously a gift from her continental education.

"Evening, Miss Krystal," Fox said.

"Evening, Mr. McCloud," she replied, her voice edged with bitterness. "If you're here, I'm afraid I've found myself unwell, and shall retire. Good night, all."

As she vanished into the upstairs halls, Mrs. Caruso sucked her breath in, and giggled. "She's not usually so rude," she said. "I wonder why the poor girl has it in for you?"

Fox had no idea; the encounter left him a little shaken, but a little relieved. If Krystal, for whatever reason, found his company unbearable, then no one would think of romance between them. He would be able to work in comfort.

"So what do you think is in store for Corneria, Mr. Lombardi?" Mrs. Caruso asked, her own interest being politics.

"We have a regent, and Corneria will prevail," Falco replied sternly.

"Three more executions in Vemon City yesterday."

"Corneria will prevail," Falco said quietly.

Fox had little interest; he walked the length of the hall into the drawing room and found a window, with which he could find a good view of the lawn. He already missed the city, something he hadn't thought possible. There was little to miss; yes, there were plays, and exhibitions, and pamphlet wars, and the intelligentsia, but out here in the country you were either a gentlemen, with gentlemen interests, or a vulgar (how he detested that word). Fox was neither, son of a soldier, an orphan raised by the Church, placed in a position of professor in the university. He was bourgeoise, then, and his world was dissertation, not land-owning or war. His father had been a war hero; Fox had his own problems--his religion, his perculiar sexual interests, the women back home who kept showing up on his doorstep. Krystal had been a childhood friend; he had hated the assumption they were to end up married. She would bring a considerable sum, and she was certainly intelligent, but--

No, no country gentlewoman for him. He had decided this. But even as he stood there, fiddling in his pocket for his reading glasses, he could feel it. The ghosts of his father and his father's enemy had followed him, even here. How we bring our nerosises with us, even into the lap and luxury and the Cornerian countryside. God in heaven.


	2. Town

Odious little man! thought Reverend Peppy Hare, as he crossed the village square, tipping his hat to two ladies as they passed. It was sickening to think of soldiers garrisoning as Bravenshire. They would tear up the roads into mud, fill his church with infantry. Oh, the officers were all right; they were, after all, men of rank; but he knew a soldier's education did not necessarily make a decent man.

Corporal Toad stood by the carriage, speaking to a young woman enthusiastically. They had all leapt upon him as soon as he'd arrived; this young toad in splendid red uniform. Here for holiday, he said; soon shipping out to the coast, to see if any of the Venom revolutionaries wanted to try practicing their magic on scrappy Corneria; they'll be there to make sure they see them back into the continent, give them what for-- oh, is that Reverend Hare, Reverend Hare!

"Slippy, you don't have to shout," Peppy said, reaching the carriage. "I'm right here."

"Prince George'll give them what for too," Slippy said to the ladies, who giggled, charged by his enthusiasm.

"The Venomian Revolution is _over_," Peppy said, reaching up to get into the carriage. "Whatever _periodic _riots are happening; you-- my word, Corporal, don't you read the weeklies?"

"'Course I do," Slippy said, not taking his eyes off the ladies. He struck a huge grin. "But never trust a Venomian; am I right?" He laughed gallantly and swept himself up onto the carriage next to the hare. "Right, where do, Rev? Up for a bit of hunting? I-- Good Lord--"

A donkey trailed its way into the square, hauling a massive wagon, filled with large black wheels, and a long cannon. An ape stood upon it, driving the wagon; a wolf in a long dark raincoat followed.

"Excuse me, excuse me!" Slippy shouted, running the length of the square. He paused, eyes upon the glittering war engine. Artillery was his speciality, he thought; it's my speciality; it has always been my specialty; but I've never seen a thing like this."What-- what is this?"

"Qui?" the ape said. "Wolf, c'est une pomme! Vert sur le tete -- une pomme vert! Rouge sur la graisse! Une pomme rouge!"

"Ferme ton _fucking_ bouche, Andrew!" the wolf shouted, leaping up onto the wagon and staring at the ape with one good eye. Turning onto Slippy, he bowed low and said, "Herr Toad--"

"That's Corporal, mate," Slippy said quickly, indicating his unifor.

"Herr Corporal-- Corporal Toad-- Do you know what's currently happening across the channel at this very moment?"

"Hopefully hiding themselves, fearing the Cornerian might and good Prince George."

"Andross Oikonny--"

"An upstart--"

"Is now Emperor of Venom."

Slippy blinked, taking that in.

"Cannons like these ones," Wolf said, tapping the artillery, "are being sent to the coast; you should be whisking your way there too, I should think."

"Nothing will come of it!" Slippy said, almost shouting. "Venom has too much respect for Corneria."

"Ja, doch. At any rate, I bid you gentlemen good day. Afternoon, Corporal."

Slippy and Peppy watched the wagon roll through the square and out towards the road. The wagon hit a rock and the wheel cracked in two, the entire thing twisting, bits of iron catapulting along the square. The ape fell, lost in the cascade of metal.

"Oh my Lord!" Slippy shouted, running over as fast as he could. Other men joined him, pulling pieces of the cannon up. Wolf got to Andrew first, pulling off a large chunk of iron off him.

"Mon jambe!" Andrew screamed loud, waving his arms. "Ah, mon jambe, mon jambe!"

"What's he screaming about?" one of the men asked.

"His _leg_," Slippy said. "Don't move him. Is it broken? Est-il, uh, uh, casse?"

Andrew stared at him, trying to work through Slippy's thick Cornerian accident, looked at his leg, then said, "Oui. Je pense."

"Can someone get a splint!" Wolf barked at the nearest man. "Good Christ, I should strangle you, Andrew. Ich hasse dich, good Christ!"

He stomped away from the accident, let the others deal with it. He fumbled in his raincoat, feeling for his tobacco. They would be late, and if they were late, they would not be paid quite half as well as he'd hoped. He wondered if there were more lucrative militaries in the world; he had not relished coming to this rainy island after the sun of the south coasts of Venom. And to stay for longer in _Bravenshire_, one of the dotty little villages peppering this area of Corneria--

But then he looked up, and saw, of all people, Fox McCloud, stepping out of a carriage with Falco Lombardi, talking animatedly with each other. Ah, but the Lord does parcel out packages of good will to his little men. Wolf smiled, rolled his cigarette, and went on smiling.

Fox was here; he could probably turn a profit out of this situation.


	3. Shadows

It's a short ride to the cliffs overlooking the river that emptied into the lake. The cliffs were ancient places, something that had been a sort of sacred place to whoever made up the village a thousand years ago. There had been a small shrine built on top of the cliffs, a warped sculture set upon it, looking out onto the lake. It used to represent the river god, or goddess, but no one knew for sure; when the sun shone on it in the afternoon, the strange sculpture cast odd, black shadows below. Someone had knocked the sculpture down hundreds of years ago, and built a small church next to it, of which there are ruins now. The church itself casts an inky reflection of itself all along the edge of the cliff, and in the afternoon, you can hardly see the dark flowers that grow along its side.

At the base of the cliff, just before the main road turned into farmland, there is an inn called the Riverhouse. It is three stories tall, and with the sudden amassing of soldiers travelling along the road, it is packed this evening; the crowds of animals in uniform absorbing the little dusty light the inn provided.

Inside, it is a study in contrasts, an orange glow from the firelight, but otherwise, everything a swollen darkness. In the corner of the inn, Wolf O'Donnel sits at a chair and writes a letter; in a few moments the letter will be carried off to Cornerian City by a well-paid rider, but for the moment he finishes it and sets it aside, thinking about his drink, thinking about the bread and cheese, thinking about the owner, wondering if she is a madam, or if she and her girls happened to be the only honest innkeepers from here to the Thames.

She is a woman named Mrs. Phoenix, although her husband is nowhere to be seen (and, if the other patrons are telling the truth, hasn't been seen in a few years). She pushes through the crowd, moving through various shades of light. This cramped dark does no wonders for anyone's beauty, and Wolf can only sometimes see that the woman's prettiness has not yet faded. She moves close to him, wiping the sweat and grime from her fur, asks him if he's ever going to finish his food, or if she's going to have to toss it to the hogs.

"I'm a slow eater," he says.

The candle next to him extinguishes itself in its own wax and his corner darkens to the point he can barely see his plate.

"Christ in God's holy heaven," Mrs. Phoenix says, snatching up the candle. "This place is falling apart, mo mhuirin. If it weren't for these fools in uniform-- ah, I'll get ye another."

Wolf sits in his pool of darkness and thinks of the monastery on top of the cliff. He'd found it startling when he'd seen it, a symbol of an older, thicker Christianity, that the Cornerians have tried mightly to shake off. Was this not, after all, the time of enlightenment? These soldier boys, these Prostestant soldier boys, spent their days wandering through sunny dogma, the new Cornerian spirituality, a raise of the eyebrows towards religion; God is a Cornerian, by God and by Christ, that sort of thing.

Certainly religion does not hover by their ears all day. Wolf can feel religion in a way he thinks they cannot; he feels it tremble behind him, a great darkness boiling over his shoulders. Sometimes in the night he wakes up and thinks he is in his old cell, in the old shadows, and he cries something out in Latin. Sometimes he hears the clanging bells. He remembers sitting in the pew, praying, hearing the deacon move up and down, up and down.

"_Bene orasse est bene studuisse_," the old sheepdog would say quietly, moving down the hall of the cathedral. That was always what he was saying; pray well, the _capacity _to pray _well_, not just to pray, but to pray _well_.

And the hallways, the old musty hallways, peeling out away from him, so that the young Wolf would stumble back, claustrophobic, and feel the mutterings of the saints flutter up from the shadows in between the windowframes of light on the floor.

"_Caelitus mihi vires_." That had been what he had cried out last night. Wolf sinks down in his seat and waits for the rider to come and take his letter.

"Candle there, mo shearc," Fara says, setting one down and using another to light it. The blaze banishs the shadows back into the dark eels that drift along Wolf's face. "Was it a knife, ye don't mind me asking?"

At first he doesn't know what she's talking about; he is sitting in a pew in the cathedral in his black dress, watching all hell boil about the walls, as hellfire comes from the bishop's mouth, landing like dogs of jet around the floor, globbing up at the edges of his eyesight.

"No," he replies. "It wasn't a knife."

"My daughters get strange fancies in their heads," she says, smiling at him. "You should hear the lies they make up about you."

"They might be true."

"Eat your cheese and bread. I don't want to have to throw any food away, d'ye understand me?"

He understands, and as he finishs the meal, the soldiers dissolve into the dark as they make their way to their rooms upstairs, or out into the night to sleep with their carts. They can't stay up; their travels have been long and tiring, and sleep comes too soon with the beer helping it along. When they are gone, and the common room empty, it smells less of sweat and grime than of wood. Wolf can imagine this inn always smelling of wood; some places don't-- the smell of dust and people seeps into the edges, and that becomes them. Here, there is just the scent of the oak.

He goes upstairs quietly to check in on Andrew, recuperating in the room at the end of the hall on the second story. The room is pitch black and he steps in, all vision taken from him. He's never been afraid of darkness; since they put out his eye, he's lived half in darkness, anyways; it is a constant companion. "Andrew," he said quietly. "Comment est ton jambe?"

But Andrew is asleep, and Wolf can hear his soft, low breathing. Walking next to the bed, Wolf looks down at where he supposes Andrew is. Ah, Andrew, he thinks; good Christ, das ist aber schade. "Ah," he whispers, "es macht nichts."

But in the darkness there, he feels stained glass windows harden around him, and suddenly, as if the monastery on the cliffs has infected him with memory, he can sense the cathedral around him. He feels black robes on him, can hear the Latin pounding in his head, chilly heaven above, boiling hell below. Where can he go, with memories like these clutching at his heart--

The mountains?

"The mountains?" Fara asks, as she crosses the empty common room over to his table. "Aye, it's always good for a child to grow up near mountains. We have them too-- ah, where I grew up, I mean."

Her two older daughters are seated at the bar, cleaning dishes. Fara sits at the table, mending her youngest's dress. She is tired, and feels old, and unattractive. She half-wishes Wolf would go to his room, so she can lock up and draw herself a bath.

Wolf laughs and shakes his head. "These mountains--ah, my girl, these mountains you would _not_ want to grow up in. Bramble country. Pine and snow. You'd come out of the cabin and stare down over it all; white and shadows on the white and--"

And ice clinging to your fur, and your father standing over you like a behemoth, swinging an axe into the side of the tree with his one working arm. Couldn't be a doctor any more, because of that arm; he had been replaced by his apprentice, but the man could still fell a tree. Would they go to the city that weekend? There was no reply.

"Entschuldigung," his father said simply, when the tree nearly clipped Wolf on the way down. His father spoke rarely, and when he did, it was either about medicine or the Church.

"Snow in the mountains?" Fara asks, looking at him, picturing it in her head, romanticizing it.

"Snow up top," Wolf says. "Bramble and pine down below. We were not wealthy."

After her daughters have gone to bed, Fara stands in the doorframe of the common room. Wolf sits there, staring at the table, lost in memory.

"Are ye a arms-trader, Mr. Wolf?" she asks.

"Hm? No, Frau Phoenix." He stands up, still feeling the haunt of the Church about him, his blood feeling liturgical, stain glassed windows flickering at the edges of his sight. He walks past her, extinguishing the candles as he went, so that the room became only blackness against the low orange glow of the fireplace. He looks her straight in the eye and says, "I trade arms, but I'm also a Whig magistrate."

Her mouth moves; eyes flickering from his one good eye to his eyepatch. "A Justice of the Peace, eh?" She snorts. "No, ye'er not."

His lips draw back into a grin. "Good night, Frau Phoenix. I shall see you tomorrow."

He ascends the stairs, and vanishes into the dark. In his mind, he is up on the cliff, stepping into the dark ruins of the monastery, picking his own over the bits and pieces of stone. What trinkets of the old faith would he find? Or would they have been lost to the ages and corruption, butchered and sold off in parcels five hundred years before?

His first arrival to England had been on a rare sunny day; the boat struck up against the pier and the light blasted away all the shadow of his past. There is now only himself, and Death, and his billowing intellect. There is profit, and there is travel, and his life can be pieced to both.

The moon is in the sky, and as he looks up at its bright face, he thinks of Fox, and wonders what Fox is doing now, if he knew what Wolf is about to bring upon him. The moon, he decides, is very beautiful. "Pretty," he says, because he likes the word.


End file.
